A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  There was polite applause.

  Colin Matheson turned to Hawthorne. ‘I’d like to begin, if I may, Mr Hawthorne, with some facts about you. How long were you a detective?’

  I was expecting Hawthorne to be monosyllabic at best but to my surprise he sounded completely relaxed. Perhaps he had rehearsed this with Matheson before I’d met them at lunch. ‘I started off in uniform,’ he began. ‘These days, you can become a trainee DC with two years’ work experience and a decent university degree but it wasn’t the same back then. So I had to climb the ladder: trainee DC, then a full detective constable and after a while I got accelerated promotion to DI. In total I was with the Met for eleven years.’

  ‘How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I’m thirty-nine.’

  ‘Have you always investigated crime?’

  ‘I spent a couple of years in child protection but I felt more comfortable with the CID.’

  ‘Why did you want to go into policing in the first place?’

  Hawthorne sat perfectly still. ‘I read books when I was a kid. Maigret and Father Brown. It interested me.’

  ‘Did you have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No. I was the only one.’

  I was beginning to feel a sense of dismay as I listened to all this. I had known Hawthorne for months. I had worked with him on two murder investigations and I was in the middle of my second book about him. But in the space of one minute he had told Colin Matheson more than he had ever told me. I had never known his age, for example. And I had written that he had spent ten years as a detective, not eleven. Why was Hawthorne answering these questions so readily in front of an audience in an Alderney cinema when with me he’d always been so guarded about his private life? Was he being deliberately provocative or could it be that he had some perverse sense of duty, that having accepted the invitation to come here this was the price he had to pay? As always, his face gave nothing away.

  I expected Matheson to turn to me but he still hadn’t finished with Hawthorne.

  ‘What, for you, is the best thing about being a detective?’

  It took Hawthorne a few moments to process that one. ‘That’s a good question, Colin,’ he said, eventually. ‘I suppose the answer’s got to be making the arrest. That’s the bit I always enjoy the most. The thing about murderers is that most of them are as thick as shit, if you’ll excuse my language. Even the clever ones are never quite as clever as they think they are. I’ve met so many of them who think they can get one over on me, but they still make mistakes, and if you ask me what the best thing about being a detective is, it’s that moment when I know that I’ve got them, when the mask comes off, when the whole thing is solved.’

  ‘So it’s not a question of protecting people, upholding the law?’

  ‘Well, of course that’s part of it, and you being a barrister, I can imagine that’s important to you. But that’s not my job. I mean, I’m not protecting anyone because when I’m called in, the one person I might have protected is already dead. As for the law, I leave all that to the judges and the lawyers. I don’t like going to court, if I’m going to be honest with you. All these people arguing all day. And ten years in jail, twenty years … what difference does it make? My job’s done.’

  I was still waiting to join in but at the same time I was fascinated. I had never heard Hawthorne talk so much – certainly not about himself. And it was true what he had just said. When you think about it, just about every murder mystery you read ends with the arrest. You never see the detective giving evidence. And once the killers have been drawn into the legal process, they become quite uninteresting. They disappear.

  ‘But you are making the world a safer place,’ Matheson insisted.

  ‘Is that true?’ Hawthorne blinked. ‘As I’ve already said, by the time I arrive, the murder’s been committed. Nobody’s been saved. And more often than not, the killer’s got what he wanted. He’s inherited the money. He’s got rid of his wife. It’s very unlikely he’s going to kill anyone else.’

  ‘So the work you do … it’s just part of a process.’

  ‘You could say that. You can’t have law without law enforcement. That’s what I do.’

  ‘But you’re good at it.’

  Hawthorne nodded. ‘I think so …’

  ‘Have you met many murderers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And …?’ Matheson waited with a half-smile, wanting more. But there was no more so he moved on. ‘Are all murderers caught?’

  ‘All the ones I’ve met have been.’

  This got a ripple of laughter from the audience.

  ‘What gives them away?’

  ‘It could be anything.’ Matheson still wanted more and this time Hawthorne obliged. ‘There’s so much pressure and the stakes are so high that it’s hard to stay in control. There’ll always be a little detail – it could just be a tic – that gives you away. It’s like you’re playing poker and you’ve been dealt a royal flush. Ace, king, queen, jack, ten. It could be worth a million quid. But you’ve got to be a real pro to know how to keep it to yourself and most killers aren’t.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Charles le Mesurier nod at that. He was the CEO of Spin-the-wheel, the online gaming company that had sponsored the festival, so it was an analogy he appreciated. His friend or business partner was leaning forward, listening intently. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the talk.

  I hadn’t spoken a word for what seemed like a very long time now but Matheson hadn’t finished with Hawthorne. ‘Does it worry you, appearing in a series of books?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why did you want to do it?’

  Hawthorne shrugged. ‘I needed the money.’

  There was more laughter. If this was a dry run for Edinburgh and Hay, it was clear that Hawthorne was going to be fine. He didn’t need me at all.

  ‘And was Anthony your first choice of writer?’

  ‘Let’s just say he was the first one who was available.’

  I smiled gamely. The audience applauded.

  Finally, Matheson turned to me. ‘So what was it that persuaded you to write Hawthorne Investigates?’ he asked.

  I had sat in silence for so long that for a moment I didn’t even know what he was talking about. Then I remembered. ‘Actually, that’s not the title. The book’s going to be called The Word is Murder.’

  ‘Oh.’ With that single syllable Matheson let me know that he preferred Hawthorne’s title.

  ‘I wrote it because I thought it would be interesting,’ I said.

  My answer clearly wasn’t interesting enough. Matheson turned back to Hawthorne. ‘I presume you’ve read the book,’ he asked.

  ‘No. Not yet. Tony hasn’t shown it to me.’

  ‘Are you nervous about how you may appear? Especially as you’ve put yourself into the hands of a writer known for fiction.’

  Hawthorne shook his head. ‘It doesn’t really bother me. It’s only a book.’

  ‘Two books,’ I said.

  ‘People can think what they want. I know the truth.’

  ‘Finally, Anthony, a question for you. What’s it been like, writing about Mr Hawthorne?’

  I had to think for a moment before I answered that. ‘Well, it was different—’ I began.

  That was only the start of what I was going to say but Matheson assumed that I had finished and cut straight in. ‘You’ve kindly agreed to read a few pages for us,’ he said.

  ‘Yes …’ I had brought the typescript on my iPad and flicked it open.

  It had taken me a while to choose a section from the book. Obviously, the audience would want to hear a scene in which Hawthorne actually appeared, but I didn’t want to read out anything that might sound critical of him, certainly not when he was sitting right next to me. Nor did I want to give too much away. I’d finally settled on an extract from Chapter Four: Haw
thorne looking over the crime scene. I had to cut a couple of personal observations but otherwise he appeared in a good light and there was a scattering of applause when I finished.

  ‘Thank you, Anthony.’ Matheson signalled for the house lights to be raised. ‘And now I’m sure there are plenty of things the audience would like to ask …’

  For the next twenty minutes, we took questions, although almost all of them were directed at Hawthorne and had very little to do with the books. He went through several of the cases he had investigated, including the brothel in Causton Street that he had mentioned at Random House and, more annoyingly, the murder of Diana Cowper, which I had just described. Unlike me, though, he didn’t stop at the scene of the crime. I would have to remind him, before we ever did another talk, not to mention, quite so casually, who had done it.

  I got three questions. An elderly lady in the front row asked me about Foyle’s War. A kid at the back wanted to know if there was going to be another Alex Rider and if so, would it have better gadgets? And a strikingly attractive fair-haired woman with ice-blue eyes made a lengthy speech about the importance of school libraries and asked me what I would do to save St Anne’s, by which I think she meant the school rather than the entire town. This is actually something I know quite a lot about and I remarked that under UK law, libraries are statutory in prisons but not in schools. This happens to be true and, with this audience, it went down well.

  But after that it was all Hawthorne. Did he believe in the jury system? Did he support capital punishment? Did he like reading detective fiction? Had he ever watched Midsomer Murders? (No.) Was his picture going to be on the front cover of the book? Who would play him in the TV series? On and on it went until Matheson raised a hand and said that we were out of time.

  There was one person in the audience who hadn’t been allowed a question, even though he had tried several times to attract Matheson’s attention. It was the man in the third row who had come in with le Mesurier, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled himself laboriously to his feet and called out: ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Actually—’ Matheson tried to cut him off.

  ‘Detective Inspector Hawthorne hasn’t told us why he left the Metropolitan Police. If he was so successful at his job and they liked him so much, why did they kick him out?’

  I looked at Hawthorne. To the audience, it would seem that nothing had changed. He seemed relaxed. His face gave nothing away. But sitting with him, I got the sense of a coiled spring. Right then, I was quite certain that the two men knew each other.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I wasn’t kicked out. I decided to leave.’

  ‘So there’s no truth in the story that you were dismissed following an assault on an innocent man while he was in your custody?’

  ‘Not me,’ Hawthorne replied, mildly. He cocked his head. ‘And not innocent, as I recall.’

  The audience was looking from one man to another, puzzled and a little concerned.

  ‘So there was no IOPC investigation? No dismissal for gross misconduct?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Well, my mistake.’ The words were laced with sarcasm. The man had made his point. He sat down.

  The session came to an end. There was to be no signing session because we hadn’t yet produced any books. As the audience filed out, Colin Matheson leaned across. ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Derek Abbott is an absolutely vile human being. He works for Charles le Mesurier, advising him on his investments and various financial matters. You saw the two of them come in together? I don’t know why he was here. He hardly ever appears in public and quite frankly, if I’d known he was going to be in the cinema, I might have declined to take part. He lives on the island and he’s pure poison.’

  ‘What did you say his name was?’ I asked.

  ‘Derek Abbott.’

  Suddenly, everything was clear. This was the reason Hawthorne had been so keen to come to Alderney. Derek Abbott! He was the child pornographer who had ‘fallen’ down a flight of stairs while Hawthorne was escorting him to the interview room. And he lived here! What was in Hawthorne’s mind? Was he pursuing some sort of vendetta? Did he mean to have a second go at finishing him off? And why hadn’t he told me? The bastard! Didn’t he think I’d find out?

  I had been told the story of Abbott’s life-changing accident by another police officer and although Hawthorne had denied it, I had always assumed that he must have known exactly what he was doing. I had tried not to allow it to affect what I thought of him. How could I make a hero out of a man accused of police brutality – even if his victim had been about as repulsive as it is possible to be? Wouldn’t that make me complicit?

  In the end, I had done everything I could to put the whole thing out of my mind and maybe that was why I was so angry when we got out into the street. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Derek Abbott lived here?’ I almost shouted at him as soon as Colin Matheson had left the two of us alone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was on the island?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was any of your business, mate.’ Hawthorne was unruffled, which only made me angrier.

  ‘Of course it’s my business. I’m writing about you.’

  ‘You don’t have to write about him, though.’

  ‘What? You think I can lie? Or just pretend it never happened?’ I tried to collect my thoughts. ‘Why did you even want to see him again?’

  ‘I was interested to find out what had happened to him.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what happened to him. You turned him into a cripple!’

  ‘He tripped. He fell. I did nothing.’

  ‘So why are you here, then? What are you going to do to him this time? Push him off a cliff?’

  Hawthorne had had enough. He was already walking away.

  ‘I just can’t believe you’ve done this!’ I shouted.

  ‘I’ll see you at the party,’ he called back.

  He turned a corner and he was gone.

  7

  The Lookout

  I spent about an hour in my room before I came down to the reception area that evening. I tried to read a book I’d been given, a history of modern Greece, but I was too out of sorts to focus on the words and I couldn’t make sense of Venizelos and the so-called National Schism. The party was supposed to begin at seven o’clock, but I didn’t want to be there until half past. In fact, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there at all. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Finally, I got up, showered, changed and took the lift downstairs.

  My information pack had told me that The Lookout, Charles le Mesurier’s house, was a ten-minute drive away, but I intended to walk – with or without Hawthorne. I really didn’t care. I’d be following the coast the whole way and I liked the idea of watching the evening light glisten on the surface of the water and listening to the rhythm of the waves.

  I left my room and went downstairs. As I came out of the lift I heard Anne Cleary’s voice. She sounded upset. ‘Are you sure nobody’s handed it in?’ She was standing at the reception desk with her back to me. ‘It’s not that it’s particularly valuable. But it does mean a lot to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cleary. I’ve looked in the lost-property drawer but it’s not there. I can ask the cleaners for you tomorrow.’

  ‘It was in my room, by my bed.’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t have taken it, but I’ll ask them.’

  I took a few steps forward and she turned and saw me. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh – it’s nothing. It’s just that I’ve lost my fountain pen. It’s a particularly nice one, a Sakura, made in Japan. It was given to me by my agent.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’ I asked.

  ‘I was just saying. I thought it was in my room.’

  ‘Did you lock the door?’

  ‘It locks itself.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Maybe I left it at the school. I signed a whole lot of books, although I’m sure I put it in my handbag.’
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  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, particularly after what had happened that afternoon. I’d been meaning to ask her what she thought about her encounter with Elizabeth Lovell. Surely she was far too sensible to believe that her dead son, William, had somehow communicated with a so-called psychic. She must have known that she had been the victim of a cruel confidence trick. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know her well enough and I didn’t want to intrude. ‘Are you coming to the party?’ I asked.

  She had dressed for it in a black jersey with silver sequins and a long skirt, and sure enough she nodded. ‘To be honest with you, I don’t really feel like going to any party tonight, but I suppose it would be rude not to and there’s no real point sitting on my own in my hotel room. So, yes, I’ll look in for a short while.’

  ‘I was going to walk round if you’d like to join me.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m waiting for George Elkin. He’s offered me a lift.’

  That was when Hawthorne arrived. He’d taken the stairs, not the lift, and came straight over to us. From the look on his face, you’d have thought the argument between us had never happened. ‘You all right, Tony?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m about to walk to the party.’

  ‘I’ll join you.’

  ‘I was just talking to Anne,’ I said. ‘She’s lost her pen. She thinks someone may have taken it.’

  ‘A black Sakura with a silver nib?’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’ Anne’s face lit up.

  ‘No. I noticed you using it yesterday when you signed into reception.’

  He wasn’t showing off, but that was absolutely typical of Hawthorne. I had no idea how he did it but there wasn’t a single detail that he ever missed and somehow he filed it all away in that remarkable mind of his, to be dredged up whenever it was needed. That was why I would never solve a case before him. I couldn’t even remember what I’d had for lunch.

  The two of us set off together.

  I had already decided not to say anything more about Derek Abbott and his presence on the island. I didn’t want to spoil the evening. Instead, I walked in silence until we had reached the edge of Braye Beach and then I asked: ‘How do you think she knew?’